


Watch it burn

by amyNY



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst and Romance, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 03, spoilers for 3X09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 14:23:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10336562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyNY/pseuds/amyNY
Summary: Neal is having second thoughts about running away and then Sara knocks on his door..





	

**Author's Note:**

> My first (and so far only) White Collar fic, transfer from ff.net.

-NS-

He sits alone, on the floor, leaning his back against the frame of his bed, focusing on the silence in an attempt to ignore the storm in his head - words unspoken, plans formed and judging by the stack of papers on the table - ready to be executed.

In many ways it's reminiscent of the night from not that many years ago, he thinks and finds no comfort in it. Because years ago he sat in a similar apartment, alone, with nothing but a bottle of champagne and a broken heart. Yes, not a lot has changed with time.

People were often doomed to repeat their mistakes and he was no different. Or maybe he was just finally realizing what he was, a conman that managed to con everyone, including himself. He fooled himself to believe he could be someone different, someone better when all along the better person he thought he could be was only a mask, the one so fragile it was unveiled with a simple treasure hunt.

Truly there was no sadder thing than a conman conning himself.

A bitter laugh escapes his parted lips as he thinks how far this is from how he imagined it would be. Yes, he has finally done it. Tomorrow his new life was starting. He was leaving this all behind and a few years ago that thought alone would make him grin from ear to ear but now it only made him feel defeated, as he stared at the celebratory bottle of wine Mozzie brought over earlier trying to suppress the urge to smash it against a wall. Hard.

When Mozzie was here he kept reciting everything they'd get with this as he sipped on his 1982 Bordeaux and all Neal could think about was how much he'd lose. Morning coffee on the rooftop with the New York Times crossword puzzle and a croissant, a small reminder of his old days. Afternoons at the Central Park. His friends. June. Diana. Ellie and Peter. Sara.

There's a knock on his door and briefly he lets his imagination run, and smiles at the thought that it could be Peter. Maybe he figured it all out and came to arrest him.

He's probably going mad if the thought of jail sounds more appealing than a vacation in Bali or maybe his heart is trying to tell him something. But it's too late for it now, he has a long day ahead of him tomorrow and he needs to focus, mind over heart – this time he can't afford to repeat his past mistakes.

Yet he fears he could as he opens the door and she's standing there – dark green dress and a mile long heals, curls falling effortlessly, side bangs hiding her eyes effectively. She says nothing and he doesn't really expect her too – it's all been said already.

In the end, it's all beyond saving. Him. Them.

All he can think is that she's here and he really doesn't want to spend his last night in New York alone – he fears he might do something stupid. (Cancel it all, call Peter and seal the rest of his life.)

This isn't much better but as he closes the door behind her he lets his heart lead, if only for the night and reaches out for her with his right hand, leading her inside. She's so much like him in so many ways – determined to always maintain control, stay in charge of a situation and he knows how much it cost her to even come to his doorstep after everything, to admit defeat in a way.

Tonight, she wasn't Sara Ellis, the calculating insurance agent, but a woman who was losing the man she loved and was taking that last chance, even if she knew it would amount to less than nothing tomorrow. And seeing her like that, with her defenses down, made him think that in a lot of ways she was braver than he ever was. It made him value this moment more, made him wish he could let his guard down but after years of pretending it was almost impossible to stop that fake smile from forming on his lips, to keep the one man show going.

But she just stood there, without asking him a single question (she knew everything already) and so there was no need for games, no need to put on a show (For whom?) so he was honestly a little confused, and a lot weary, tired of it all. She looked like she was too.

Still he was dying to say something, break the silence because hiding behind words, behind lies was easy (distraction was the key), silence left too much room for observation, making his skin crawl since he could practically see her getting closer and closer to him, closer to seeing the real Neal Caffrey. But as soon as he opened his mouth to speak she put her hand on his lips shushing him quickly and planting a light kiss on his lips.

He took her cue and slowly with his hand removed one of the straps of her dress as she followed his fingers with her eyes as they brushed against her soft skin easily, knowingly as they've done many times before. But this isn't like that. It's different. It's the last time. They both know it and it adds the additional weight to their every step.

She takes extra time to unbutton his crisp white shirt, refuses to face him.

His every touch unravels her a little more, peeling back the layers... Tears fell freely – the beauty in the breakdown.

He is stoic. Eyes focused. Heart hidden.

He wants to comfort her, wipe the tears away, fix what he broke. She deserved better than this. They all did. She stops him, presses her lips against his softly once again. He can feel her take his hand into hers so he lowers his eyes to look as her fingers as they cover his and its then that he notices his hands are shaking.

For some strange reason, he feels embarrassed by it, his own body betraying him like that.

Neal Caffrey used to pull off scams worth millions of dollars with hands as steady as a rock, swiped fake credit cards with a grin and a joke, the epitome of cool and collected and here he was breaking down over what?

"I must have forgotten to eat something today. This low blood sugar thing-" he pulls his hand away from hers, lets out a laugh that sounds far too false even to his own ears, and grabs the glasses from the table to pour some wine, playing the one game he's good at. It's as easy as dancing.

One. He pops the bottle open after a little delay because his damn hands are still refusing to cooperate.

Two. Pours the wine. Carefully avoids her eyes.

Three. Picks up the glasses and turns to hand her one with that winning smile back in place.

"Neal…." she says, lets out a breath, sounding tired and irritated by him. Clearly he wasn't as smooth as he used to be.

"82 Bordeaux. I saved it for the special occasion. So why not, right?"

"Neal-" Sara starts with a sigh, "I don't think you wanna go."

"What?"

"Honestly I'm sure that Neal from four years ago would pretty much pick up that fake passport and the silly hat and go without a second thought. But not you. Not now."

He laughs at that. "Don't be fooled by the new suit or the fancy apartment. I'm still the same guy who allegedly stole that Raphael painting, among other things-"

"That's what you'd like to believe. But you're not that guy anymore. People change."

"Maybe they do. But not Neal Caffrey," he says finishing up his drink, smile fading away.

"If that's true then how come you still haven't packed your things? Neal I used to know would have his bags ready weeks ago and yet-" she moves to his closet and opens it, "-your clothes is still here, books, cd's….one unread massage on the phone. Probably from Mozzie, asking when will you meet him tomorrow, if I had to guess. You still haven't answered him. Why?" she asks standing there, in the middle of the apartment, with his phone in her hand and he has absolutely no idea what to say.

He can feel his eyes burning but doesn't know why, or maybe doesn't want to know. But he does know one thing for sure. "I don't have another choice. I don't," he says, shocked by the raspy quality of his own voice and takes a few steps back, as if distancing from her will help distance him from the truth too. "It's either that or jail."

She knows that. She knew it before she even came and knocked on his door. That's why she promised herself she wouldn't ask him to stay; she wouldn't ask him a single thing – seeing him would be enough. They've already said all they had to say anyway, no ties were left unsevered. The only reason she came tonight was because every time she thought of their last conversation she'd start missing him terribly and he wasn't even gone yet.

Still the fact remained that he was leaving but now she wondered if it was for the right reasons. If he was leaving New York because of the money or because he wanted to be free she would get over it somehow, tell herself he was just as selfish as he's always been and move on. But as she looked at those blue eyes the images of him somewhere in Europe, miserable and alone, on the run, just didn't want to leave her alone. He could fool himself or even Mozzie but Sara could tell he would regret his decision as soon as he'd step on that plane. So she had to say something.

"It doesn't have to be," she says softly and he wants to believe her so much it's almost pathetic. Keller would probably laugh at the sentimental fool he has become, the great Neal Caffrey kept in one place, not by a police orders, or an electronic anklet but by his own foolish heart.

"We can find a way," she says voicing the words that were always there in the back of his mind, hushed every time by the thoughts of jail. "Or if we really screw it up we can talk to Peter and-" he cuts her off, kisses her right in the middle of the apartment, his apartment, and smiles against her lips, the sound of her own laughter, soft and filled with possibilities spreading through the spacious room.

"Jail it is then," he says already thinking of a way to tell Peter about this and not get punched in the face. More than once at least. Even so he's certain it'll hurt less than a thought of leaving it all behind.

"I promise I'll come for conjugal visits."

"You better."


End file.
